Salt in the Wound
by DarthVader'sApprentice
Summary: "If you don't stop prying, I will burn you. I'll burn the heart out of you." Moriarty was never one for empty threats. Minor spoilers for the Great Game. Character death!
1. Little Surprises

**so! This is my very first fanfiction, yay!  
summary: _if you don't stop prying I will burn you. I'll burn the _heart _out of you. _Moriarty was never one to make empty threats.  
****warnings: Character death, oh noes! Implied Sherlock/John  
disclaimer:**** A plan is underway to hold Steven Moffat to randsom for the rights to Sherlock, but until then, I own nothing.  
Enjoy!**

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Salt In The Wound

"You thought it would be that easy? That quick? I don't take kindly to being underestimated. It will not go unpunished- I've left a surprise for you." there was a click and the phone went dead. Sherlock sat staring intently at the small pink phone, pondering what he had just heard and trying to shake the disconcerted feeling he always got when he heard the voice of Jim Moriarty. No, of course blowing up a building wouldn't mean the end of it, even if Moriarty was inside the building in question at the time. But Sherlock and John had both escaped alive, and, after several weeks and a full recovery from both of them, maybe he had dared to hope.

_I don't take kindly to being underestimated. It will not go unpunished. _What had that meant? The words worried him. Most people he encountered were so slow, so easy to predict, but Moriarty was almost as clever as he was, and had been one step ahead of Sherlock for a long time now. As much as he hated to admit it, even to himself, Sherlock felt powerless against him. Not a feeling he enjoyed. So now, confronted with a mysterious and ominous message from the man himself, Sherlock felt slivers of fear running through him.

Mrs. Hudson poked her head round the door, momentarily jerking him from his reverie. He focused long enough to hear her ask the whereabouts of his flat-mate, John Watson. There was a reason for the question, but Sherlock had sunk back into thought before he could hear what it was. He muttered "upstairs" and she left again in the direction of John's bedroom.

_I've left a surprise for you. _What? And, more pressingly, where? Maybe he-

His musings were brought to an abrupt halt by the sound of Mrs. Hudson's scream echoing down from the floor above. From John's room. Without thinking, Sherlock vaulted the back of his chair and ran across the table- sending several of his latest "experiments" crashing to the ground in the process- reaching the stairs with alarming speed. He took them two at a time and barrelled in to the room, missing Mrs. Hudson by only a few centimetres. The sight before him froze him as solid and as cold as ice:

John was spread eagled on the bed, his head turned away to the opposite wall, one hand dangling slightly off the edge of the bed. But all eyes in the room were drawn to the blood. The blood lying in a large pool around John, soaking the bed sheet, the pillow, running along his out stretched hand and dripping off his fingers onto the floor. Splattered half way up the wall. Staining John's shirt and jacket a stomach-turning crimson.

Sherlock's brain worked faster than virtually everyone else, his IQ was easily higher than anyone he had ever met, his powers of observation worked at light-speed. But even he, in all his intellectual magnificence, could not comprehend the scene that lay before him. As if his brain had been frozen in shock, struggling to even _see _what was in front of him, never mind make sense of it. How much time past, he didn't know. maybe seconds, maybe minutes. Then the full force of what he was seeing hit him like a bullet in the chest.

He reeled back, slamming against the wall. His breath was coming in short, ragged gasps. It took all his will power to form his thoughts long enough to speak, "Mrs. Hudson. phone Lestrade. Tell him to get down here immediately." the woman he was addressing was clutching the door frame for support, a nearly hysterical look in her eyes. She began to form a stuttered reply, making no move from her current position. "NOW!" Sherlock's voice surfaced as a shout. She jumped, saw the look of panic in his eyes, and fled the room.

Under normal circumstances, when faced with a dead body, Sherlock would leap to it's side and begin ascertaining the cause of death, possible motives, and several deep-seated personal secrets only the person in question would ever have known. But now... He couldn't bring himself to perform the simple task of walking to the bed, couldn't bring himself to raise his head and look again at John, lying still and soaked in blood. He wondered vaguely how he'd ended up collapsed on the floor, but that was lost amongst the sick feeling rising rapidly within him, the dizziness, the image of John circling and rebounding behind his eyes. Through this haze one thought was surfacing: _I don't take kindly to being underestimated. It will not go unpunished- I've left a surprise for you. _John. This was the intended surprise? The idea was repulsive. Horrific. But this was Moriarty. The thought was not to be immediately pushed aside. Who new what he was capable of, behind his camp façade and his team of invisible snipers? John. There was enough blood for Sherlock to know that there was little he could do at this point. Little he could do. The thought sent great pangs of terror ringing through him, threatening to devour him. He was still fighting for control when Lestrade arrived on the scene.

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Sherlock had lost count of the number of crime scenes he'd been to over the years, and to be honest, they were sort of fun. Swaggering round silently working out the likelihood of the new trainee officer cracking under the pressure, how many people would be turning to alcohol to escape their misery once they returned home, and how long it would be before Donovan got pissed off and dumped Anderson. Again. Since John had moved in, silent wondering had become whispered debates and the occasional giggling fit (for which they were always rewarded with murderous glances from whoever was standing near them).

Having a crime scene at your own house with your flat-mate as the victim is another matter entirely.

John had already been taken away in an ambulance. And officers were combing his room for anything that might give them a clue as to what happened. Sherlock knew they needed him up there, but couldn't face that room again. He'd managed to gain some level of control over himself, but it was shaky at best, and back in that room...

he remembered how he'd felt when the doors of the ambulance had shut, separating John from him. He'd been gripped with a sudden, immediate fear that he would never see John again, that he'd lose him forever. The same fear threatened to resurface at the memory, and he desperately shoved it down again. In his effort to calm himself memories began to surface. Of him and John and Moriarty on the poolside. His shock at the site of John, his fear when the bomb jacket was revealed strapped to his torso, and... something Moriarty had said...

"_if you don't stop prying, I will burn you. I will burn the _heart _out of you."_

"_I've been reliably informed that I don't have one."_

"_Oh now we both know that's not quite true."_

there was no doubt any more. This was the work of Moriarty. How was for another time, what mattered now was that he'd done it. He'd struck for Sherlock's heart and he'd hit dead on. For a long time Sherlock had thought himself incapable of feeling anything for anyone. So much so that he no longer recognised his own feelings. But Moriarty had. He'd recognised what Sherlock cared about most and struck for it. John. His flat-mate. His colleague. His only friend. Sherlock saw for the first time how well Moriarty knew him: too well, perhaps even better that he knew himself. He was able to inflict emotional pain far greater than any physical injury. He'd left Sherlock powerless to do anything except hope and pray that, against all the odds, John had not been taken from him forever.

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**Does John live? or die? I'll leave that one up to you :)**

**Save John Watson and Review!**

**This fic was originaly intended to be a one-shot, but I've had a few requests to continue it into a full story. I'm in two minds at the moment so I've set up a poll on my profile page. Should it continue or is it better off as it is? Don't forget to add your vote! **


	2. Back Track

**Hi again! now, unsure as I was, this story has had such amazing feedback I decided to continue it. this, however, is just a filler chapter while I get the rest of the plot organised (suggestions welcome). this is the attack on John from his POV. thanks to Agent ERA suggesting this.**

**I'd like to thank everyone who reveiwed and alerted, you've literaly made this story happen! :)  
so, big thank you to:**

**xheloisex  
Broccoli-xxxx  
Agent ERA  
Idealsdon'tpay  
machi-tan**

**enough rambling, on with the story!**

**Salt in the wound  
****Chapter 1.5**

John Watson's careerer in the military had given him several things: one, a bullet wound in the left shoulder. Two, a psychosomatic limp. And three, probably the most important, a rather brilliant ability to defend himself. However, no matter how good you are at self-defence, no one can ever be prepared for being grabbed from behind by someone at least three times your size. Especially when you're on the third floor.

Despite his attacker's apparent size, he moved with alarming stealth, so much so that the first time John realised he was there was when a huge hand came from behind him and clapped around his mouth, efficiently preventing him from making any kind of cry for help. Or breathing, for that matter. Before he had time to move, he'd been thrown backwards. He slammed into the wall, knocking all the breath out of him and bashing his head. Hard. His vision blurred and he felt a wave of nausea sweep over him. This was all he felt for about two seconds. Then something big and hard crashed against his cheek.

He fell, the right side of his face on fire. He barely had time to recover before he was struck again, this time in the chest. And again. Blow after blow was rained down on him, until he was made blind by tears and blood running into his eyes. How long it went on for, he had no idea, but having had no chance to get his breath back, he was unable to do anything in his defence.

Suddenly he felt himself being dragged and lifted. Then underneath him was no longer hard but squishy. At the back of his mind he knew he'd been dragged onto the bed, but not why. He didn't have long to wait. The hand was back over his mouth, and before he could properly register what had happened, the knife had entered his thigh.

After that there was nothing. Nothing except for the explosive, burning pain in his leg. It was a pain not unlike one he'd experienced before. When he'd been shot in Afghanistan. He knew the potential fatality of a pain like this, something needed to be done, and done fast. Fear began to creep up to join the pain, and soon they were both battling for his attention. However, this didn't last long. Both of them started to recede, and he felt himself falling. The darkness turned, if possible, even darker. Sounds became muffled and other things started to disappear: The chilled breeze blowing from the open window, the feel of the bed beneath him, the ticking of the clock on the wall. There was someone he had to get to, someone important. He'd know what to do. If only he could remember who...

He heard someone scream, very faintly, as if they were a long way off. Then a crash, so far away it barely registered. As the falling became faster a stray thought wandered into his mind:

_is this what it's like to die?_

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**promise promise promise I'll get a shift on with posting following chapters. ok, so it might be a while but I don't want to be making it up as I go along, I seriously doubt it would do the story any good at all.**

**Spotted any errors? let me know!**

**:D**


	3. Ruptures

**and now... the story continues *dun dun duuunn***  
**...**  
**aaaanyway, sorry, this chapter is a bit short, following ones should be longer. This is just to start events in motion. What events, you ask? look, you'll find out!**

**Thanks to all my reviewers and alerters! thats everyone I peviously mentioned plus**

**SapphireMoonlight24**

**Herendil**

**too much talk! here we go!**

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**Salt in the Wound**

**Chapter 2**

The white, scrubbed waiting room in the hospital was virtually empty. Two figures were there, one sitting in a far corner, one pacing back and forth. The only ones there. The only ones, it seemed, that cared anything for the well-being of John Watson.

Lestrade had long since given up on getting Sherlock to sit still. The few times he had sat, he'd been squirming endlessly, eyes flitting around the room, feet tapping. After about two minutes, he'd sprung to his feet again like a compressed spring and resumed his pacing.

In all honesty Lestrade couldn't blame him. Sherlock was restless and impatient at the best of times, and now, in a cramped waiting room, marking time until news of his best friend was brought to him, it was impressive all he was doing was pacing. Lestrade could tell he was worried. He was holding his calm exterior well, but after five years, it was clear when he was agitated.

"Where is he? What's happened?" The voice made both men jump. A door flew open and a young woman rushed in. Her hair was scraped back in a flyaway ponytail that she'd clearly spent no more than ten seconds on. She was dressed in ragged jeans and an old, worn shirt that was buttoned up wrong. She'd left her house in a hurry. That and her obviously panicked demeanour alerted both Sherlock and Lestrade to the fact that this was Harry Watson.

Lestrade got to his feet and approached her. She turned on him "what happened?"

"Come and sit down Miss. Watson" Lestrade entreated, gesturing to the chair he'd previously occupied.

"Tell me what's happened to my brother." She stood her ground, glaring at Lestrade. He sighed and gave up, "John's taken a serious beating and a knife wound in the leg." there was no point skirting the facts. Harry clasped a hand to her mouth in horror. Lestrade helped her into the nearest chair, where she put her elbows on her knees and buried her head in her hands. "will he be all right?" her voice was muffled but the pain in her tone was clearly audible. Lestrade and Sherlock exchanged glances.

The chances of John's survival were thin at best, but somehow, neither of them had the heart to tell her this. Maybe because both of them, in their own separate ways, were desperately hoping that a miracle would occur. They wanted to pretend that everything would be fine and dandy, that the odds were not stacked against them. Harry took a deep breath, then lifted her head, making a valiant effort to compose herself. She wasn't stupid- she knew the implications there joint silence carried. She also knew that breaking down wouldn't help matters, even though he was her only family and therefore she had that right. She'd reserve it for a more appropriate time.

"What happened to him?" she asked, succeeding in keeping the tremble out of her voice.

"We don't know" Sherlock spoke for the first time. "he was up in his room for about three hours, then our landlady, Mrs. Hudson, went up to find him and..." he trailed off. No one needed, or wanted, him to finish that sentence. Instead, he turned to Lestrade: "did the search of his room uncover anything?" Lestrade shook his head regretfully, "Nothing. No sign of a struggle or anything."

_No sign of a struggle? _Sherlock pondered this. Everyone who knew John new he wouldn't go down this way without a fight. But if there was no struggle... could this have been... _self-afflicted_?

No. Absolutely not. The mere thought sent shivers down Sherlock's spine and brought back the old sick feeling he'd felt when first finding John... _no. _the thought was to agonising to even consider. He shoved it roughly away and did what he always did when his emotions threatened to overwhelm him: hide behind logic. Besides the stab wound, there was no way John could possibly produce the injuries he had single-handedly. Not with out destroying half the room and attracting the attention of the entire street in the process. And if he had, why bother stabbing himself in the leg? He was a soldier, it was almost certain that he knew how to slit a throat, or puncture a heart...

"He's survived this before. He was shot in Afghanistan, he made it through that okay."

Harry's simple statement seemed to light a spark of hope in them all. It was true, John had lived through a bullet wound and was still alive and running. Could he get though this as well? Perhaps they were all underestimating John's survival ability? Silence filled the room as they all considered this, but it was no longer the despairing silence there had been before Harry had come in. it was a hopeful silence. Nothing was said because they were all lost in thought, whereas before there had been nothing to say.

At that moment a doctor walked in, bringing them all back to reality. His expression was unnervingly grave. Harry stood up "how is he?" The doctor turned is attention to her, "are you family?"

"I'm his sister. Is he all right?"

"I'm afraid not. The knife wound ruptured the Profunda Femoris. He'd already lost a lot of blood by the time he was found. He died a few moments ago."

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**:'(**


	4. Blinded

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**I know, I'm realy sorry! I was away the weekend then ran smack into a giant wall of Writers block. But here we are, chapter 3.**

**Thank you to all the afore mentioned reveiwers and alerters plus:**

**Eco lin  
Aqua-lily6  
Stephanie Lou  
SweetLilnothing  
Valkyrie Vamp  
Hikari-Tasogare  
Eemilyvr1**

**Chapter 4 will be uploaded quicker. ok, yes, that was a blatant lie, but, hey...**

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Salt in the Wound  
Chapter 3

Time stood still inside 221B Baker street. The bustling and hubbub of the crowds out side were no match for the impenetrable, doom-laden silence that hung in the air. Eye contact was avoided on all sides; no one wanted to see their own distress reflected on someone else's face.

A matter of months. Not one of them had known John any longer than that save for Harry. She definitely appeared to be the worst off. Though the sobs had dissipated, tears were still sliding silently down her cheeks, and the glass in her hand was being gripped so tightly her knuckles had turned white. A half empty wine bottle was on the table next to her. Though everyone else seemed to be holding up better, there joint serenity was a façade. A lie. It was true none of them had known John for very long at all, but time seemed irrelevant in the current situation. Time was not not making it easier.

Sherlock hadn't moved an inch since they had all returned home. He could still see, painfully vividly, the doctors grave face as he relayed the news to them only an hour or so previously.

_The knife wound ruptured the Profunda Femoris. He died a few moments ago._

The words had not left him once. Not ceased in circling round and around in his mind, no matter how hard he tried to push them away. Every time he attempted to expel the thought, it returned with vengeance, bringing with it some other painful memory. First to appear had been John as he'd been when discovered after the attack. Then John standing stiff and scared, tiny red dots flitting over the bomb jacket strapped to his body. Uncountable memories unearthed themselves from the back of his mind and refused to be ignored. The minor, most insignificant ones were the worst. All the times John had made him laugh, all the times he'd marvelled at his ability to see details that were invisible to everyone else. How many times had Sherlock brushed off his compliments, ignored his laughter? Why had he insisted on acting as if he took John for granted?

No. He knew why. Because he had. Because this was one thing he could never have foreseen. John, who had fought in a war, who could kill a man without so much as a tremor if it meant saving a friend, had seemed very much the survivor. And now he was just... gone.

Lestrade cleared his throat and announced that he had to get back to the office. No one responded, but he made his way through the flat and out the door without waiting for a reply to come forward. It probably never would anyway. Outside, he turned and looked back at the house he'd just left. Of course it looked no different. what had he expected? He turned and walked away from the street where everyone was carrying on as normal unperturbed, and unaware of the life that had been lost that afternoon.

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Only a few days after John's murder, it was evident who had been hit the hardest. Sherlock moved like a ghost around his flat, seeming to be off somewhere distant and inaccessible. He turned up whenever some baffling new crime demanded his attention, but he moved through the business with a world-weary heaviness about his posture, his movements, the tone in his voice as he relayed his findings to Lestrade. It no longer gave him life the way it used to.

It was distressing to witness. Even Sally no longer had the heart to keep up usual string of insults. But what was surprising was the effect it had on everyone else.

From all the years of crime scenes and gruesome murders, Sherlock had appeared unshakable. Nothing affected his arrogance, his confidence, his swagger. He was the backbone of the police team. Their solid centre. Whether they liked him or despised him, everyone looked to Sherlock for reinforcement. They all leant on him for support. No one liked it, and most of them probably didn't even realise it, but it was inevitable.

But now their stronghold had crumbled. Their centre was shattered. Even those who barely new him could recognise this drastic change in his demeanour. The very fact that he was showing any emotion at all was unheard of, something so far from the ordinary, no one new how to react to it. Sherlock was eccentric and unpredictable, but there were things everyone new they would never see from him. And now one of those very things was staring them straight in the face. It was disorientating. Confusing.

Frightening.

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How much time had passed since he had returned home? How much time had passed at all? It felt like months, but it couldn't be, could it? The calendar on the wall, on which Mrs. Hudson dutifully crossed off each day as it passed, proclaimed it to be just over a week. Was that possible? Was time passing so excruciatingly slowly? A lot had happened, but nothing that could even begin to distract him from the ever present ache in his chest. From his... grief? The word sounded odd, out of place. Then again, nothing seemed to fit any more. Nothing seemed to work properly. Time ran at a snail's pace, then, just as he'd managed to salvage a respite from the pain in the form of a few hours of sleep, it shot by as if it had been fired from a gun. No challenge had it's old, desired affect. Of course he still showed up to scene of a particularly baffling murder, but the conundrums now only succeeded in frustrating him. They were no longer his fuel, his energy, his life. His life had gone.

Always questions. A wall of questions where before there had been a stream of answers. His brain refused to work to it's full capacity, that was the problem. Using only what it had to to stay alive. Even that couldn't keep out the pain.

The fact that the Earth revolved around the sun. Who the current prime minister was. Simple facts that were so easy to forget. So easy to delete from his memory to save space. So why could he not do the same with John? Why was every memory branded so fiercely into his mind, he knew they would never be forgotten? That was the only way out that he could see. Forget that John ever existed and move on. But it was clear that that was impossible.

He wondered for the first time how Harry was coping. He hadn't seen or heard from her since she had left his flat on the first night. He knew Lestrade was keeping an eye on her, but he hadn't thought to ask. Maybe he should enquire after her himself. Perhaps it would help distract him. He doubted it, but perhaps.

He dragged himself to his computer, stiff from sitting still so long, and switched it on. His website came up, and he was about to click off the page when something stopped him: he'd received an email. Who from? No one had contacted him personally for ages, all the cases had come through Lestrade. His curiosity peaked, he opened the email.

_He works for him, you know._

There was no more to the message, no attachments or hidden words. What did it mean? Who was him? Not even the sender was identified. While he was still trying to rap his head around all this, his screen flashed and another e-mail announced itself. Without hesitating this time, Sherlock opened it up:

_Turn around. Now. Your life may depend on it._

Had the message arrived a second earlier, it would have been successful. However, before Sherlock could fully process, and respond to, what was on the screen in front of him, a large hand had come from behind him and clapped around his mouth, efficiently preventing him from making any kind of cry for help. Or breathing, for that matter...

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**:O**

**Reviews are love! I think poor Sherlock needs it at the moment...**

**will start work on chapter 4 now! well, soon anyway.**


	5. Back In Business?

**here we are. had inexplcable difficulties with this chapter, but, finally, it is done.**

**Thank you to all my previous reviwers and alerters plus:**

**medusa750  
Holly Xavier-Diggory  
Blame the Cupcake  
Dolphelecat  
Glittery-exuse-for-a-Fae  
lilyean24  
so-schway**

**ok, I'm done now.**

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****Salt in the Wound**

**Chapter 4**

Before he had time to move, he'd been thrown backwards. He slammed into the wall, knocking all the breath out of him and bashing his head. Hard. His vision blurred and he felt a wave of nausea sweep over him. This was all he felt for about two seconds. Then something big and hard crashed against his cheek.

He fell, the right side of his face on fire. He barely had time to recover before he was struck again, this time in the chest. And again. His surroundings were starting to blur and he was still unable to draw breath, when a loud bang sounded from somewhere behind him. Someone cried out. Had it been him? No...

It dawned on him that the blows had ceased. His attacker had stopped. Summoning all his effort, he rolled over and forced the world back into focus. It didn't last long. For a fraction of a second he clearly saw his attacker on the ground, eyes clenched shut, hands clasped over his leg. Then the darkness returned with vengeance and pulled him under.

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Having been a police officer for the last 10 years, fear had become an emotion Lestrade found relatively easy to ignore.

Of course, that wasn't always the case, as one hysterical phone call from Mrs. Hudson- carrying an unnervingly heavy resemblance to the one he'd received the day they'd found John- was proving quite nicely.

It was probably this resulting fear that had led to him taking off for 221B Baker Street without waiting to assemble a team or backup. Not that he was allowing it to cloud his judgement, or anything.

However, on arrival fear was forgotten amidst the bizarreness of the scene awaiting him. Sherlock was unconscious and sporting rather nasty bruises. He wasn't the expert on such matters, but the pattern of his wounds were very familiar to those inflicted on John. Mind you, expertise wasn't exactly essential in this situation. You didn't need expertise to be able to see the dead hit-man on the carpet.

It took exactly two minutes and one rather impatient phone call to get a team together and on there way down to join him. The time until there arrival was spent calming Mrs. Hudson, and reassuring himself that Sherlock was, definitely, still alive.

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"Mud smears on his inside trouser legs and arms. Could be that he climbed the drainpipe but unlikely, a man of his size. Plus, the pattern of the smear is too artificial, someone applied this deliberately."

"But why? And how the hell _did _he get up here?"

"Give me time. Give me time..."

Needless to say, Sherlock had not taken Lestrade's advice to rest. There was a corpse in his flat. That meant there were deductions to be made. A challenge staring him in the face and be damned if he was going to ignore it.

Lestrade wondered why he ever bothered worrying about him.

"It must have been the window though. From where I'd been sitting, door had been clearly in site. No other means of access."

"So what, he scaled the side of a building in full view of the entire street?" Sally had appeared in the doorway. For the first time, Sherlock seemed at a loss for what to say. The smug grin appeared on Sally's face, and she wandered off, clearly satisfied. Sherlock turned back to the window. "What did you have to bring her for?" the sulky tone in his voice was evident, and Lestrade had to bite back a grin. "She's a good officer, whatever your opinion."

Silence followed this statement, Sherlock apparently lost in thought. Or, more likely, in a huff. Then, "It wasn't one of your lot this time, either."

He turned, saw the confused look on Lestrade's face, and clarified, "that shot him."

"No. From what I heard of it he was already dead when Mrs. Hudson found you."

"Bullet wounds in the leg and head... no gun anywhere around here any more so couldn't have been fired by anyone in this flat...somehow got in through a second floor window unnoticed... then there's that e-mails..."

"E-mails?"

"Hmm? Yes, e-mails. Two of them. Arrived a few moments before he did." he gestured vaguely in the direction of is computer, and Lestrade crossed to it.

The second was curious enough. It seemed that the climb up the side of the house hadn't gone entirely unnoticed, after all. But the first... it made no sense. Utter gibberish, and yet it was obvious that it meant something, and meant something big. He had a feeling deciphering this would be Sherlock's department.

"I'll let you know when the ballistics report comes in, see if we can trace the gunman." Of course, the gunman was probably miles away by now and they both knew it, but it was something to hope for, none the less.

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He'd vaguely heard Lestrade leaving, but had been to busy thinking to pay much attention. He was loathe to admit it, even to himself, but Sally did have a point. How had he managed to climb the out side of a building unnoticed by an entire street?

Almost an entire street. In the last few minutes he'd forgotten about the content of the second e-mail. It was natural to assume that the sender of said message was also the gunman who'd killed his attacker. Given that two bullets had been fired- one hitting the leg, the other the side of the head- it was to be assumed that A) the gunman in question was not an expert marksman, or B) they had been shooting from a rather awkward position. From where he was standing, the only places where a bullet could be successfully fired through the window were the houses directly opposite his across the street.

It was already established that the mud splatters on his attackers sleeves and trouser legs had been artificially produced. To make it look as if he'd climbed the drainpipe? It would have looked random enough that an unobservant eye would dismiss it as such. But the only logical reason for doing this would be to cover up the real means of access used. Interesting.

Interesting but nonsensical. He turned away from the window, frustrated at how slowly his brain was working. That was when he saw it. The screen of his computer flashing, announcing that another e-mail had arrived.

Sherlock leapt across the room, fresh adrenaline coursing through him. He had expected another cryptic message. He certainly got it.

_Slow, Sherlock. I was led to believe you were better than that. One more..._

Underneath the writing was a picture. A simple portrait shot of a man in his late-forties.

What? Was this supposed to be any more helpful? Not even a name?

Wait...

He didn't need a name. He knew that face. A bad memory was connected with that face. Where, where did he know it from? It was recent... think, where? Very recent... come on, think! Recent, yet seemed like a lifetime...

Oh.

Of course. That was why he hadn't got it straight away. It wasn't the face but the words. One sentence that had been haunting him ever since he'd heard it.

_The knife wound ruptured the Profunda Femoris. He died a few moments ago._

Sherlock sat in stunned silence, his brain fusing this e-mail with the first. Connecting them. _He works for him you know. _Him. Suddenly it was obvious. Why had he not seen it straight away? And if that doctor really had been working for him then...

No. surely not. It was too much too ask. But, if this was really true then there was no reason to doubt it. His brain refused to let him accept the notion. But it was possible, wasn't it? Was this really happening?

Was it possible that John Watson was still alive?

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**:)**

**I'll try not to leave this one hanging for too long.**

**BTW, the letting me know about mistakes thing still stands. I'm rather bad a spotting my own errors...**


	6. Darker Than Expected

**Hi!**

**Now, I'm not entirely satsfied with this chapter, but I reckon everything in it is needed. **

**the usual roll call: thanks to everyone previously mentioned with the addition of:  
****Melethwen  
nicetameetcha  
kuuu  
mysterypoet66  
EchelonForever  
KlinicallyInsaneKoschei  
redpeacock  
smiles **

**ONWARD! :D**

* * *

Salt in the Wound

**Chapter 5**

The wind howled in through the shattered windows, making Sherlock shiver with cold. It was cold, he was feeling. It wasn't fear. Never fear.

Street lamps shone in easily from the street out side, but countless shadows still hung eerily on the walls. How easy it would be for someone to hide there. To ambush the unsuspecting idiot who wandered defenceless into your trap just because you fed them some lie about their best friend...

_Stop it! _

He mentally slapped himself. Paranoia would help matters even less than fear. Not that he was frightened, not at all.

Still, he still slipped a hand into his inside pocket, feeling the cold metal of John's handgun. Contrary to his previous belief, it had still been in the flat, though the thin layer of dust coating it proved that it had not been the weapon used to murder his attacker.

_No, focus. Don't think about that now._

Instead, he found his mind returning to a few hours previously, as he'd sat at his computer, trying to comprehend the idea that John could, possibly, still be alive.

Possibly.

Of course, doubt had infected his mind almost as swiftly as hope had. As soon as the thought surfaced that the messengers identity was unknown. That this e-mail was all he had to go on.

_**Who are you?**_

_Words of desperation, and he knew it. But this person was a last, shining sliver of hope. It was 2 minutes and 44 seconds until the reply came. He hadn't even realised he'd been counting the seconds until then._

_**The abandoned warehouse. Midnight. Come alone.**_

He'd known where they meant. He'd passed it enough times, on the way to cases, but never given much attention to it. Just a run-down old building. Derelict and abandoned.

Inside- with the sounds of the busy street muffled almost to non-existence, and the damp and the filth accumulated over the years providing a text-book smell of decay- it was another matter entirely.

_**How do I know I can trust you?**_

_The first rational thought to enter his head since this whole mad conversation had started. It had by now occurred to him that this could well be a trick. A lie. John Watson had gone and now it was time to take Sherlock Holmes down as well._

_But part of his mind was refusing to accept this. The attack... they had warned him. It may have worked, had he been thinking as quickly as he was capable of. Why bother? The first e-mail was a perfect distraction. Ensure the attacker wasn't noticed until it was too late._

_**You don't.**_

_Interesting. If it was definite that they could not be trusted, they would tried to have convince him otherwise. But they hadn't. The words carried a heavy implication that the sender in question was perfectly trustworthy, but had no way to prove it. Unless it was a very clever double bluff._

_**So why should I show up?**_

_He knew he shouldn't. There was no way he could be sure who this person even was, never mind whether or not he could trust them. Details had been carefully avoided, timing of messages very suspicious. Showing up would be an act of suicide-_

_**I am the last hope you have of ever getting John back.**_

_**The abandoned warehouse. Midnight. Alone.**_

_**

* * *

**_

He wasn't afraid. The chills running up and down his spine were due to the cold. His jumpiness to the slightest noise was merely... he wasn't afraid, dammit!

Footsteps. Echoing off the concrete floor. He whipped round, the gun coming out of his pocket and aiming into the shadows in one fluid motion.

Pause. Then a quiet chuckle.

"You'll notice I made no move to silence my footsteps. I didn't try to hide the fact I was here. So clearly not sneaking up on you."

The voice was female. Sweet, light, and yet had an almost indiscernible edge to it. One he couldn't quite place.

"Why shouldn't I just shoot you now?" he wasn't sure he would- what she had said was true, she clearly wanted him to know she was here. But it was still there, a voice inside his head urging him to pull the trigger, to take out this potential disaster.

"You kill me you'll never see your best friend again"

Beat. Then his hand fell limply to his side. "Why here? Who are you?"

She laughed again. "It's out of the way. Unlikely to be observed or bugged."

"By who?"

"I wasn't joking you know. I really was led to believe you were faster than this."

His increasing annoyance at her was cut short by a sudden realisation. Her voice. It was... familiar.

"Well, if were not being bugged here: tell me everything."

"You won't like it."

"I don't like not knowing either."

"Okay, good point."

There was silence for a few seconds, and then she began:

"Two years ago I was an absolute wreck. I was an alcoholic, unemployed, and my marriage was breaking up. I had little money, that was the start of it. Because alongside having little money, I had a friend with connections to various criminal organisations. I was desperate, I got involved. It turned out I made quite a good criminal- I was fast, I was thin, but I was strong too. Few months of training and I was handy with a gun. I worked my way up, became quite notorious. I moved about a lot to avoid detection. Then one day police caught up with two of our best, arrested them. Turned out one of them had been roped in to help with a planned murder. Someone important. That left a vacancy that needed to be filled. Someone said I should take his place. Most agreed. So I was taken to see him. The guy organising the whole thing. Moriarty."

The gun was back up and pointing at the shadows before Sherlock had really registered what he was doing. He was a fraction of a second away from pulling the trigger when she cut him short.

"I think I have the right to finish, don't you?"

He hesitated, then nodded, though the gun in his hand didn't waver.

"I got involved in the murder. It almost failed- there was someone at the scene we hadn't anticipated. I was nearest. I was the one to shoot her."

Her voice became hollow, the laugh leaving it entirely. Suddenly, Sherlock was certain he knew the girl still hidden in the shadows.

"It wasn't until she was dead that I saw her properly. She was barely more than a teenager, far to skinny, obvious puncture wounds all up the insides of her arms. Drug addict. And I guess... I had a moment of clarity. Because I had been like her not long ago. Staring down at her I finally properly saw what I had been like for so long. And, more importantly, what I had become since. And all I wanted was to run away and hide, from myself. From the world. From anything!

It didn't go away. I carried on feeling the same way the next day, and the next, and the next. Finally I couldn't take it any more. I just wanted out. Course, it's an awful lot easier said than done, getting out of an organisation like that. I tried running away, but they found me easy enough. Almost killed me. Would have done if the police hadn't caught up with us. Seemed someone tipped them off about us being in the area, I was too beat up to ask. I spent one night in the cells with only my depression for company. One night to sit and stew before he showed up. Told me he had the man-power and influence to protect me from them. To make sure my charges were dropped. I could work for him- pay would be good, and could potentially keep me busy enough to stay out of trouble. He has that sort of position, you see."

Wait...

"You don't mean..."

"I think I do mean. His name was Mycroft Holmes."

Well... that was unexpected. He really shouldn't be surprised, His elder brother seemed to be involved with every occurrence and unusual happening in London. The incidents over the past weeks, however, he'd considered a bit much even for Mycroft. One of these days he'd learn.

She seemed to read his silence, and the laugh returned to her tone, "Knew that one would get you."

he sniffed, trying to sound uninterested, "So you know my brother. I really shouldn't be surprised."

"No. But how about this: we have more mutual allies than just your brother."

Without giving Sherlock much time to consider this, the footsteps started up again, coming in his direction. The gun was already aimed into the darkness, but that didn't last long. As soon as she emerged into the light, and he finally saw her properly, his arm dropped to his side, shock taking over once more.

"Harry?"

* * *

Confusion was not a feeling that agreed with Sherlock Holmes. Neither was surprise. Usually he found both so easy to shake off, so simple to stay one step ahead of everyone and avoid them entirely. Lately he'd been experiencing them a lot more than he cared to think about.

So now, back at Baker street, he stood by the fire, running through everything that had happened in his mind and trying to make some ordered sense out of it all.

Harry was at the table doodling a rough map on the back of an envelope, and explaining where and how John was being held. It seemed a rather elementary hostage situation, if such a thing existed, and with very careful planning combined with Harry's knowledge of the building and a few heavy weapons, they stood a reasonable chance getting in and out unscathed.

"It's nearly all ways heavily guarded but there are other entrances I'm almost certain they've overlooked, acting as a double agent I felt I really needed to know that kind of stuff, and I meant to ask, do you employ a window cleaner?"

"What? No."

"Oh. In that case I've solved the guy-getting-in-through-the-window-unnoticed-by-an-entire-street thing."

"... He was a window cleaner?"

"Ooh, well done. Your brother had stationed me to keep a watch over you, s'how I saw. And I assume the same trick was pulled when John was... anyway, obviously, no one pays a blind bit of notice to a guy up a ladder cleaning windows. So, once the street is quiet, he slips in. someone of similar build comes and takes the equipment away, not one person pays enough attention to spot anything out of the ordinary. 'Cept me. And whoever shot him."

"That wasn't you?"

"Out of range. Bullets came before I could even spot a decent shooting place. And no, I didn't see where they came from, happened to fast. Look, that one less thing to puzzle over, we've talked enough. We need a conclusive plan. We need to be ready. Tomorrow night, we're going in there and we're busting my baby brother out."

* * *

**OMG! whats gonna happen to them! well, obviously I know, cause I'm writing the damn thing, which renders this entire sentence completley pointless. :(**

**Sherlock and Harry need some reveiws for luck, methinks x**

**The credit for the Window-cleaner/attacker buisness goes to xheloisex and TARDISMAN, it was entirley their idea, I just stole it.**

**now, I'm gunna be away for this half-term** **hols, but I'll work on Chapter 6 while I'm away, and it should be up soon after. in theory.**


	7. Breaking Point

**Hi! oh, yeah. I've got an exuse this time!**

**So, over the haif-term hols, I finally got round to reading the original Sherlock Holmes stories (yes, I've never read them before. My age is my defence, I'm only young). The point is, I kind of totally fell in love with them, and spent a long time doing very little else :)  
And then I went through this massive writing self-esteem crash (not sure what caused it) and went through several weeks thinking going nowhere near this story.  
also, GCSE's. Nuff said :P**

**Still owe everything to everyone, this now includes:-  
arakmellon, hpets, Galadriel Gryffindor, DarkStar 7713, RitualeRomanumSNP, Black-fire Phoenix Wings, gginsc, Anesthesiologist, Arlothia**

**I be shuttings up now :)**

**

* * *

****Salt In the Wound**

**Chapter 6**

In retrospect, they really should have been more careful. Well, Sherlock _had_ begun to suspect, but dismissed it as nerves. Had he all ways been this stupid? Because of this, they were completely unprepared for an abrupt discovery that resulted in Harry being flung hard against a wall.

Sherlock instinctively dropped to the ground, thus narrowly avoiding a large, meaty fist colliding with his ear. He rolled and sprang to his feet with alarming dexterity, just in time to parry another attack. He threw a punch of his own, which his attacker blocked, twisting his arm behind his back. Sherlock had to bite his tongue to keep from crying out, then threw his head back, slamming it onto the bridge of his attackers nose.

Okay, o_uch_. But it worked well enough, his attacker staggering back and loosening his grip so Sherlock was able to twist free. Turning straight onto an oncoming fist.

Damn.

The fist was surprisingly strong, and sent Sherlock reeling back into a corner, preventing any means of getting away from his oncoming attacker. He was reduced to wondering if he could dodge whatever technique was coming his way, when a heavy boot connected painfully with the side of the guards head. He staggered to one side, yelling in agony, revealing Harry to be back on her feet and no worse off for her argument with the wall. The moment he was off balance she swooped in, taking his feet out from under him. He toppled, then fell, his head making a nasty crack as it hit the unforgiving steel of the floor. Sherlock and Harry stood frozen- both breathing hard- for about three seconds, staring down at the now unmoving form of the guard. Then Harry spoke up:

"We need to move him before he comes round. There's a small chance no one heard the ruckus we just made, but if anyone comes down here and sees him our game'll be well 'n' truly up."

"There must be somewhere." Sherlock scanned the bleak corridor thoughtfully, "this is effectively the basement of the building, all be-it a rather over-grown one, and if it's assumed the main building maximises the little space it has, it would be a fair estimation to say that this part is used for storage."

"So, it's like, hidden compartments? Isn't that a bit... cliché?"

"Perhaps, but it's worth a try. Now as for ways of opening doors without handles... possible that they could be de-pressed, but you were thrown against that panel and it remains shut, so unlikely... look, there's a thin gap between each panel, maybe with some leverage... do you have anything thin and flat?"

Harry considered this for a moment, then her hand went to her belt and she drew out a knife, with a long, faintly curved blade, and leather around the handle. She slashed a few times, listening to the rather majestic swish as it sliced the air. Then she handed it over, "look after that, it's my favourite"

Sherlock gave her look, "Your _favourite_? How many do you own?"

Harry shrugged, "look, I'm spying on a master criminal with an army of munchkins-on-steroids, it helps to be prepared."

Deciding that this was neither the time nor the place to discuss this, Sherlock turned back to the wall, and wriggled the blade between the panels. Then, leaning heavily on one side of the blade, he prized the panel away from the wall, until it sprung open.

He had been right. Inside the wall there was a small room, filled with folders and invoices and piles of taped up boxes. Together he and Harry managed to haul the still unconscious guard into the cupboard, leaving him sprawled among the debris.

"We should be safe leaving him here." Sherlock remarked, running a finger along a shelf and inspecting the layers of dust he had picked up, "this particular cupboard hasn't been entered in at least a month."

"Then we'd better clear out, we've been still far too long. And, for gods sake, lets be _quieter _this time!"

* * *

_Among a labyrinth of corridors, all with identical panelling and nothing distinguishing one from the other to the unobservant eye, was a large, circular, high ceilinged room. It would have been simply an empty space, perhaps an abandoned meeting room or long term storage area, had it not been for the modifications Jim Moriarty had placed there when he turned the whole basement floor into a temporary HQ. The modifications had turned this room into a perfect base for hostages, and it was where, for the past few weeks, John Watson had been held._

_He had no idea exactly where he was, only that he had been brought here one night under sedation, after recovering in a private hospital from the wounds inflicted on him by the mysterious attacker._

_He also knew he was heavily guarded round the clock, and that he was not the only victim. He never saw them, but occasionally he heard sobs coming from a room next door, or a pleading voice that sounded female. Moriarty visited them both- mainly to taunt. From this John had a general picture of what had been going on outside his cell. Jim had loved gloating over Sherlock's obvious grief, and pondering how easy it would be for one of his assassins to take Sherlock down without any effort at all. The thought frightened John. It shouldn't- after all John was the one trapped and at the mercy of a mind rivalled only by Sherlock's, and still weak from severe injuries to the leg. He also knew how capable Sherlock was of taking care of himself. But if everything Moriarty was telling him was true... it filled John with dread to think of his friend in danger._

_He had been held a long time- how long exactly he had no idea- when Moriarty came to him looking rather gleeful. _

"_Good news, Johnny boy!" he had exclaimed the minute he walked in, "Your boyfriends coming to pay you a visit! isn't that nice?"_

_For once John ignored the slight about Sherlock being his boyfriend, focusing instead on the rest of the sentence. Moriarty chuckled at his half worried, half confused expression. He stuck his hands in his trouser pockets and began pacing slowly,_

"_mm. Seems someone let it slip that maybe your death was a _teensy _little exaggeration. Now he's rushing up here to rescue you like the heroic idiot he is. How sweet."_

_He moved forward and squatted next to John, his expression becoming one of calm triumph, "Oh, we won't go looking for him as such. In fact, maybe we'll keep the entrances clear for him, that'd be nice wouldn't it? Maybe we'll all come down here so he can see his pet before we gun him down."_

_It took all John's self control to keep the sudden rush of fear and boiling hatred from his face, to prevent himself from lunging for Moriarty then and there. He couldn't just sit here and let Sherlock walk into his death. He wouldn't. Immediately his mind started working furiously, running through possibilities, plans, theories. _

_Of course Moriarty knew he would plan something. The moment he had spoken the words the surge of angry determination in John's eyes had confirmed the notion. He grinned broadly, not bothering to hide it, and left John to himself. The guards would operate as normal, and if one of them happened to wander across Sherlock during a patrol, then, well... that was too bad. _

_He hadn't, however, anticipated that there was a traitor in the ranks, as it were. There was nothing to suggest that any one of his operatives was going against him. The smell of triumph was heavy in the air, an ultimate victory inches away, and it was distracting. Only distracting from the minutest of details, but it was enough. It led to one in his power unconscious in a cupboard, and Sherlock Holmes dangerously close to finding everything._

_

* * *

_

Rage. The first emotion to grip Moriarty when Sherlock's presence in the building was first alerted. Not only that, but how far he had managed the get undetected. There were people who would answer for this, but later. The immediate task was to get Sherlock before he got anywhere he could cause trouble. That would mean pin-pointing his exact location. Given how far in he already was, he _must _have help. Someone who knew the building well. Moriarty thought back over the past weeks. Every transaction, every job, every contact, everyone working under him, scouring his mental record for anyone with a bad history, any slip-ups, anyone neglecting duty...

Harriet.

Dammit! why hadn't he seen that? The girl had run away six months ago, been arrested, then returned to them with a plea for forgiveness, and continued working for him. What had gone on, that one night she was in police custody? Why had she been released so soon? Of course, he had watched her closely when she'd returned, but after a few months of her old sparkling form, he had let it slide. Stupid, stupid!

But if Moriarty prided himself on one thing, it was the agility of his thought process. No sooner had he come to this realisation, a way to twist her sabotage against her came to him. She had shown her hand, and he had a trick up his sleeve smash all her resistance to pieces. Change of plan. Sherlock and Harriet could get as far as they liked, but if- when- they made it to the hostage room he would be ready for them. He sat back to wait, almost eager in his anticipation of their arrival...

* * *

"This isn't right." Harry had been looking concerned for several minutes now, and could evidently no longer contain the worry, "we're about four corridors away from the cells, the place should be teeming with guards."

They exchanged a look that spoke louder than any words. Apparently they hadn't been as successful in their infiltration as they'd hoped. Apparently, they were being allowed in this far. Ambush. Neither of them needed to say it. If they continued on they could be attacked at any point, hopelessly out-numbered; they wouldn't have even a small chance of escape. But then again...

"John's still in there." it was all that needed to be said. Harry nodded once, and they started off down the corridor, Sherlock wondering when exactly he'd become this bloody sentimental.

Perhaps he'd blame it on John if he wasn't so scared for him.

It was clear from Harry's rather abrupt change in attitude that Sherlock wasn't alone in his fear. She had stopped talking, and was biting the inside of her lip. They both knew that their presence wasn't a secret any more, but her tread had become quieter, her footsteps suddenly masked by the carpet.

They wouldn't make it. They had both known it. That, however, couldn't stop the desolation at the site of Jim Moriarty, standing smug and satisfied over the beaten-down form of John Watson.

"Its no use hiding. This childish game of hide-and-seek has gone on long enough, don't you think?" Moriarty was addressing the room at large, but the two figures hidden in the dark of a passage knew exactly who he was talking to. "Still wont come out and play? Dear me, has Sherlock lost loyalty to his pet? What about you, Harriet? This must be so boring for you, only a relatives life being bargained with, where's the fun in that, eh? Why don't we make it a bit more interesting for you? Bring her out." at this last command a side door opened, and a guard came through dragging a young woman behind him. Her red hair was flying all over the place, and her pale face was stained with tears.

Back over in the shadows, Harry's hands had suddenly tightened into fists, and a barely-concealed cry escaped her lips: "Clara!"

Clara Watson. This was bad.

"How about that, not as good a spy as you thought Harriet. Too bad." Moriarty gave a slight twitch of his hand, and a second later the all-too-familiar red dots of light were flitting almost lazily over the hearts of the two victims.

They were backed into a corner with nowhere to go. All thin hopes of escape evaporated into the dark as they took the only option left to them- forward into the room.

Moriarty swivelled to face them, and a look of triumph spread across his face, "Sherlock! How lovely to see you again! And Harriet, this is good! Like a big reunion! Ex-wife, brother, brother's boyfriend-"

"Let them go," the sudden flood of pure menace in Harry's voice was alarming. Her fists were still clenched, her eyes were dark with anger, and she was giving out an image of furious determination. But minute tremors throughout her whole body gave away her terror. "they've done nothing."

"Weeeell, technically Johnny Boy here _did _try and kill me."

"After you were running around blowing people up, what did you expect?"

The sound of John's voice seemed to freeze the entire room. Everyone stopped momentarily in the wake his statement. How long the silence lasted was uncertain- probably not that long- but it was Sherlock who broke it, simply with: "John."

It was shaming (and slightly worrying) to here the tremor in his own voice, "you all right?"

"Oh, laughing." John replied sarcastically, but the half-smile he flashed him was as real as all ways.

"Well this is lovely, but I'm going to have to interrupt." Moriarty interjected, shattering the moment, "I said it before- the two of you can't be allowed to continue. You got away once, but your lucks run out now, my dears. Maybe I'll let you choose who goes first. Sherlock? John? Clara-"

"You bastard!" shrieked Harry. In a second her frozen form was gone, and she was lunging straight for Moriarty's throat.

The tension in the room snapped like over-stretched elastic. Everyone moved at once.

Sherlock and John sprang forward and grabbed Harry, trying to pull her back. Clara launched herself in front of her as Moriarty, the triumph gone from his face, leapt forward to meet Harry's attack. Commotion ensued, everyone yelling and struggling against each other. Blows were thrown, grunts of pain, curses shot like daggers.

And among the chaos, from somewhere hidden, cutting through air and voices alike, a single shot was fired.

* * *

**I'm really sorry, but there's no fake outs or elaborate plots this time- someone IS going to die. Tell you what, anyone who can guess corectly will get a cookie and either Sherlock or John :) No you can't have both of them, don't be greedy.**

**Now. At the end of this week my precious netbook is being sent away to have the busted head-phone socket repaired, and I'll be without it for a while *sob* I can't really start then next chapter before hand, so it'll be a long time before the next capter is up, sorry :( If you want I can message you and let you know when I get the netbook back and start work on chapter 7. Let me know if you do x**

**FINALLY- the next chapter will be the final one! I've loved writing this story, but it has to end at some point :'( **


	8. Picking Up the Pieces

**Well... hi for the final time!  
The following is just a lot of emotional gushing, feel free to skip.**

**So... I've been reading fanfiction for years, and I'd often come across author notes that said something along the line of "Reviews are love!" I never fully apprieciated this until I began writing myself. Seriously, every single person who's reviewed, or even simply alerted me, you've made so much difference. Several times throughout writing there were moments when, without your praise and advise, I would have bottled and never finished this story. I'm sure you all remember writing your first fics, and it's a difficult and quite daunting process. So, I wanna thank everyone who supported me, and gave me helpful advice; really, this story just wouldn't have happened without you.**

**So this final Chapter is dedicated to all of you! Namely:-  
Agent ERA | Idealsdon'tpay | machi-tan | Broccoli-xxxx | xheloisex | SapphireMoonlight24 | Eco lin | Aqua-lily6 | Herendil | Stephanie Lou | Semirrhage | SweetLilNothing | Valkyrie Vamp | Hikari-Tasogare | Eemilyvr1 | Medusa750 | Holly Xavier-Diggory | Blame The Cupcake | Dolphelecat | Glittery-exuse-for-a-fae | lilyean24 | so-schway | Melethwen | nicetameetcha | kuuu | Mysterypoet66 | EchelonForever | KlinicallyInsaneKoschei | redpeacock | smiles | arakmellon | hpets | Galadriel Griffindor | Dark Star 7713 | RitualeRomanumSPN | Black-fire Phoenix Wings | ggincs | Anesthesiologist | Arlothia | shadowkat101 | Cobbledstories | cinnabargrl | MinniMinx | Goodfairy | Ireland-Hime | Birchstar | AuphePuck girl | Rubis-chan | rose51794 | FoxyRoxy123 | TweedleDuh | + anyone who's still reading this story!**

**Okay, here we go!  
WARNINGS- Character death, Swearing, Lots of bullets getting shot around (mind your head).  
End of the chapter is Sherlock/John friendship, nothing more :)**

* * *

_Previously:_

_Sherlock and John sprang forward and grabbed Harry, trying to pull her back. Clara launched herself in front of her as Moriarty, the triumph gone from his face, leapt forward to meet Harry's attack. Commotion ensued, everyone yelling and struggling against each other. Blows were thrown, grunts of pain, curses shot like daggers. _

_And among the chaos, from somewhere hidden, cutting through air and voices alike, a single shot was fired..._

* * *

**Salt in the Wound**

**Chapter 7 **

Silence. Deathly stillness that stretched out for one horrible, soul-shattering, eternal second. Then it was broken by a single cry:

"CLARA!" Harry's scream shattered the silence into a million shards and pierced the heart of everyone present. The first to move, she leapt forward as Clara staggered back, hand clasped over her chest, all ready bright red with the blood running from the vivid, gaping wound directly over her heart.

She fell, making it halfway to the ground before Harry caught her, easing her down. Breath escaping in broken gasps, tears struggling down her deathly-pale face, her flitting, desperate eyes found Harry, whose own face was ghostly-white with shock.

"Harry..." her voice was broken and strained; it was clearly an effort to speak.

"I'm here. Stay with me, Clara. Stay with me, please!"

"Still here... all ways been here, really." her left hand drifted to her shoulder, and the light caught on a single gold band on her ring-finger. Her wedding ring.

At the sight of it the breath caught in Harry's throat, escaping as a harsh sob, "No! Don't leave me Clara, come on, you'll be fine, Clara!"

"All ways were so stubborn..." Clara's voice was barely more than a whisper, the focus slipping out of her expression. Harry took her hand in hers, holding it close to her chest, bringing into her eye-line her own wedding ring that she, too, was still wearing.

A distant smile struggled onto Clara's face, locking eyes with Harry for a split-second. Then the little that was left of her breath hitched, her eyes screwed up in pain, before the tension in her whole body released, her eyes slipped out of focus, and Clara Watson knew no more.

Tears streaming down her cheeks, Harry lay Clara on the ground and planted a kiss on her forehead with a tenderness she'd never shown before; a tenderness that was gone the moment she raised her head: through the tears, her eyes were burning with a ferocious anger and a fiery hatred that radiated off her in scorching waves. When she spoke her voice was more of a snarl-

"You." her rage was like a poison dart straight at Moriarty, "You did this. It's your fault." In an instant she was up, a hand flying to her waistband and returning, releasing the safety catch on her handgun. Moriarty merely raised an eyebrow, calling back the tiny red laser sights that had momentarily vanished. The moment they came to rest on Harry, the remaining fragments of her composure snapped- she whirled on the spot, screaming out at the empty air, "Fine! Do it! Kill me! Take me down, you can't scare me any more!". Defiance was clear on her face, it was an open challenge. A second passed, the fear and anticipation palpable on all sides. Then one of the sights flickered out. Followed by another. Suddenly every beam of light was blinking out of existence, retreating as swiftly as they had come. Harry stood in surprise for a fraction longer, then she turned once again on Moriarty, who all of a sudden didn't look quite so sure of himself.

"Not so cocky now, tough guy." her voice returned to it's low, menacing snarl. She raised the handgun once again, and fired.

The force knocked Moriarty back against the wall, his eyes wide with shock, and - it was definitely there - barely masked fear. Blood pooled though his shirt, starkly visible against the crisp, shiny white.

The instant he hit the wall a bullet shot passed Harry, missing her by a millimetre, and thudding into the opposite wall. Everyone whirled around as the side door crashed open once more, revealing the guard who had been holding Clara less than five minutes previously, forgotten in the struggle.

_Shit._

He fired two more shots in quick succession; shots that would have hit Harry square in the head had John not leapt forward, dragging her out of the way at the last minute. She struggled against him, shrieking curses and threats.

What happened next no one expected.

Steely determination hard in the guards eyes, the gun flew up again, now only a foot or two away from the pair. John braced himself, ready to throw them both out of the way or get in between the gun and Harry or _something_... when out of nowhere the red laser sights were flashing back into existence, and all pointing directly at the guard. A voice followed them: "I'd drop that weapon if I were you, Mr. Hathaway."

Confusion clouded the guards - Mr. Hathaway's – face, with more than a hint of anxiety. He was however, alone in his confusion. Every other person in the room was frozen in disbelief. All in joint recognition of the clipped, upper-crust tones of that invisible voice.

A second later their astonishment and incredulity was confirmed as the voice was followed by the heavy umbrella and carefully refined appearance of Mycroft Holmes.

He continued to address the burly Mr. Hathaway, who was still clutching the gun as if it were a lifeline.

"Mr. Hathaway, I strongly advice you do as I say. Continue to be uncooperative and the results could be... _messy._"

As if to emphasise this point, one of the renewed laser sights flickered upwards, settling between Mr. Hathaway's close-set eyes. He blanched, the last of his uncertainty replaced by fear, and his gun clattered to the ground.

"Thank you." Mycroft's gratitude was empty, and once Mr. Hathaway was no longer a danger he dismissed him, turning to the rest of the party. "John. You look well."

"Mycroft?" There were a hundred questions behind John's utterance. Mycroft chuckled quietly, "Well you know I like to keep an eye on my little brother."

Sherlock muttered something that sounded like "interfering prick" and Mycroft shot him a disparaging look: "Prove you can keep your nose out of trouble and I will stop. Had one of my men not taken down the hit-man who made an attempt on you two nights ago you would be very soundly dead. Once I received intelligence that Harriet had contacted Sherlock, I knew it was only a matter of time before you made an attempt on Moriarty. I was not, however able to stop him finding out."

"So who took down the snipers?" asked John, still looking slightly bewildered by the whole turn of events.

"I am not without my own... workforce." he replied, a slight smirk playing across the corners of his mouth. "I imagine they are at this very moment chasing after Moriarty."

Ah. Of course. It dawned on everyone that in the kerfuffle, Moriarty (even with a bullet in his chest) had managed to slip noiselessly away, back into the maze of corridors.

"I'm going after him!" Harry had made it halfway across the room before John caught her, "Let me go!" she yelled, trying to shake him off.

"He's not worth it, Harry. And even if he was you wouldn't stand a chance, Harry!" She carried on struggling: "I'm gunna kill him! Him and then it's you!" She shot the last at Mr. Hathaway, still lurking in the corner, who suddenly seemed more afraid of her than Mycroft.

"No! Harry... this isn't what Clara would have wanted. Don't tarnish her memory like this." This finally seemed to get through to Harry, and she went limp in John's arms. He held for a moment longer, then turned his attention to a blossoming bruise on her head, growing from her earlier collision with a wall.

"She needs attention," he spoke up quietly, "lets get her out of here." He placed an arm around her and began to lead her towards the door. She paused as she reached Mycroft: "Five minutes." Her voice was hollow, the last of her rage entirely dissipated. "Not just... five minutes earlier?"

Mycroft looked down at her, his expression softening. "I am only capable of so much, miss Watson. By the time he realised your treachery it was probably all ready too late. I am very sorry." and for once, he really sounded it, too.

* * *

Baker street was quiet in the early hours of the morning. Tests had been run, check-ups made, statements taken, and Sherlock and John had finally been allowed to return home. Now John sat in his chair next to the fire Mrs. Hudson had made in time for there arrival, flicking distractedly though pages on his laptop. Sherlock stood by the window, his mind working furiously – he had things to sort in his head. No news of Moriarty had been brought to them as of yet. The events that unfolded in the past weeks had force him to re-evaluate the threat Moriarty posed. He had known, before Sherlock even, how inseparable in each others lives Sherlock and John were. He had sworn to burn the heart out of Sherlock, and he had damn near managed it. Why had it taken Sherlock the death of his flat-mate to realise his importance? But what mattered now was that Moriarty was clever – _very _clever, almost as clever as Sherlock himself – and he _knew _him. Knew where to strike in order to hurt him most. Knew the things even Sherlock didn't know. And, now that he did know it, they were going to have to very careful for a while. Sherlock hated emotional revelations, they were so distracting.

John spoke up suddenly, dragging him back to the real world: "Do you think he's dead?" he was quiet, almost sounding afraid to ask.

"Hmm?" Sherlock turned from the window.

"Moriarty." John still hadn't looked up from his laptop, but he spoke directly to Sherlock.

Sherlock turned back to the window, "I don't know. He has access to good care; he patched you up very efficiently. Maybe if he reached one of his guards in time..." he trailed off, his mind whirring. "How's Harry?" he asked suddenly, still managing to sound far away. John looked slightly startled at the question (it surprised Sherlock himself, actually), then he sighed. "She's as good as she's gunna be right now: pretty damn awful. Poor girl never was any good at knowing what she wanted."

Well, Sherlock could relate to that, at least.

John sighed again, and stood up. "I'm going to bed. Don't stay up all night, you need to sleep, no matter how much you deny it." he turned and began to make is way to the stairs.

"John." Sherlock call stopped him, and he turned back again,

"Yes?"

"I... I'm glad your... okay." there were a thousand meanings beneath his statement, everything he couldn't find the ability to put into words. He could tell by John's small smile he understood every one of them.

"Glad your all right too." he turned and left the room.

Moriarty was out there somewhere. Out there with who knew what dangerous knowledge of both Sherlock and John. The game was far from over, and it was about to get insurmountably more dangerous. His stomach twisted with a mix of apprehension and - yes, all right – excitement. The world was now a more dangerous place, and he and John would have to watch their backs for a long while. But tonight, Sherlock could lay back in a house that was home once more, his best friend snoring upstairs, and know that, for the time being, it was all fine.

* * *

**Well... the end  
Final reviews and comments would be greatly appreciated :)**

***No longer has anything to get pissed at in the middle of the night when she's supposed to be asleep*  
*Stands around looking lost***

**Bye, I guess :)**


End file.
